Page 51 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Tilly pulled on her own cloak and slipped out the door like a wisp of smoke.
After giving her sufficient time to ensure no one was about, I made my way down the stairs. She was waiting for me below,holding a small oil lamp, its golden glow flickering across her eager face.
"Coast’s clear," she whispered. "Cook’s asleep, and I locked the scullery door from the inside. We’ll go out the back."
I nodded, lifting my skirts slightly as I followed her through the stillness of the lower hall. The portraits of ancestors loomed dimly in the gloom, their painted eyes seeming to watch as we crept past.
Through the butler’s pantry, past the old bell board, and down a narrow corridor seldom used by anyone but staff, we made our way toward the back of the house. The scent of coal dust and polish lingered in the air, along with something sharper—anticipation.
At the tradesman’s entrance, Tilly set down the lamp and pulled open the heavy door. Fog slipped inside like a living thing.
"He’s just beyond the garden wall," she murmured, clutching her cloak around her. "John Coachman.”
I glanced at her sideways. "You’re quite certain he won’t say anything?"
She sniffed. "If he wants another kiss, he’ll keep his mouth shut."
I stared at her. "Tilly!"
She winked. "Go on now. He’s waiting."
The door closed softly behind me as I stepped into the mist, the chill wrapping around me like a glove. Just as Tilly had promised, John Coachman waited beside the waiting brougham, his lantern casting a muted glow. We pulled away from Rosehaven House with barely a sound, the wheels muffled by the low-hanging haze that clung to the cobbled streets. I drew the curtain back an inch, watching the city slip past in shades of soot and silver.
London at night felt like another world entirely—emptied of clamor and clatter, hushed as if it, too, had fallen into uneasydreams. The usual chaos of costermongers and hansom cabs had vanished, replaced by gaslight flickers and the occasional shadow flitting across a window. A lamplighter paused beneath an iron post, his torch held high like a priest performing a private benediction.
It was quieter than I’d expected. Quieter than I liked.
Alone with my thoughts, I tried not to dwell on the impropriety of it all—the unmarked Rosehaven carriage, the midnight meeting, the revolver. And Steele.
Especially Steele.
He had not so much invited me asorderedme. With a tone that suggested refusal was not an option. And I had obeyed. Willingly.
The carriage turned into Pall Mall, the familiar thoroughfare now deserted but for the soft clip of hooves and the distant bark of a dog somewhere near St. James’s.
And then, through the veil of fog, I saw him.
A tall, still figure emerged from the shadows near the Caledonian Club, just beyond the reach of the gas lamp’s glow. His hat was pulled low, his overcoat buttoned to the throat, the sharp line of his shoulders unmistakable. He didn’t pace. Didn’t fidget. Merely stepped forward as the carriage drew near, revealing just enough of his face that I knew it was him.
Waiting—as if he’d known I would come.
As the brougham slowed to a stop, I took one last breath and braced myself for whatever this night might become.
Before I could lift a hand, he appeared at the carriage door, his gloved fingers already reaching for the latch. With practiced ease, he opened it and extended a hand.
“Lady Rosalynd.” His voice was low, the single word coiled with restrained energy.
I took his hand—the warmth of it steadying—and stepped down into the fog.
“Steele,” I replied, drawing my cloak tighter. “I trust I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Not at all.” His gaze swept over me, lingering at my eyes.
Then, without turning, he called out, “Driver—take her ladyship’s carriage around to the alley off Half Moon Street. Wait there, out of sight.”
A murmur of assent, the soft clatter of hooves, and the brougham slipped away into the mist.
“I knew you’d come,” he said.
